Grendel Unit 3: Fight the Power

by Bernard Schaffer

  Grendel Unit 3

  Fight the Power

  Bernard Schaffer

  CONTENTS

  1. Night of the Living Baseheads

  2. Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos

  3. Rebel Without a Pause

  4. Welcome to the Terrordome

  5. Fight the Power

  1. Night of the Living Baseheads

  A long line of guards braced the walls that led to the President's chambers. They cradled their weapons like mothers holding infants, long pikes with curved blades at either end that could fire with the power of a tank turret. At first, General Milner had not realized the guards were there, and he still was unsure how many surrounded him. They could only be seen from the corner of his eye as he walked past, catching a glimpse of them in his peripheral at angles to which their camouflage could not calibrate quickly enough.

  They stood as still as possible, not acknowledging his presence in any way. They ignored his initial salutes and attempts to greet them, as if he were a lower rank than the most misfit toilet scrubber. The General had paraded in front of thousands of troops all across the galaxy, inspecting their uniforms and assessing their battle readiness. Most had done their best to simply pass muster. A few had made the mistake of not taking the General seriously enough.

  None had ever just ignored him.

  These troops wore no rank or other discernable insignia. The ones along the hallway appeared made of the same color and texture of the walls from the legs up, but their feet mimicked the light and tile pattern of the floor.

  He passed one standing in front of a large bay window. The window revealed a garden of sunlight and trees beyond the glass, and the top half of the soldier's uniform reflected the sky and grass and flowers, blending him in perfectly. Milner nodded to the soldier as he stared, trying to guess where the man's eyes would be. It was futile.

  Two large metal doors stood open at the end of the hall, huge assortments of gleaming fire diamonds molded into the official seal of Unification. Milner unconsciously straightened his uniform as he approached the doors and he took a deep breath, summoning his resolve as he entered the chambers.

  The room was dark, lit only by the intermittent ripple of blue and purple ribbons of neon that floated past. The soft whisper of voices surrounded him, echoing from each direction so that he was unsure whether someone was standing directly in front of him or at the farthest corners of the room. He reminded himself that with the soldier's camouflaging capabilities, it was possible the room was packed with hundreds of men, guns at the ready.

  He moved slowly through the darkness, searching until he saw the bright red glow of fire ahead, lighting the heavy jowls and multi-tiered chin of a man who leaned forward to lower his face into the pillow of smoke rising from the flame and inhaled deeply. The man's wide, circular nostrils flared as he sucked in the smoke and his heavy-lidded eyes fluttered slightly. The light went out and the man vanished back into the darkness again.

  The General took several steps forward and said, "President Wolmar, thank you for sparing a moment of your time to meet with me."

  "More," the man gasped and the red light appeared again, a bright flame torching the end of a thin golden box, no larger than a cigar, but carved with the images of strange totems along its sides. The box began to smoke and the President grunted as he breathed in, Wolmar got his face as close to the box as he could endure until the intense heat forced him to back away. "I need a fresh box," he demanded.

  "But, my lord, this is your third today."

  "And I will have four. Or five. Or however many I choose, and if you do not get it for me, I will find someone else who will."

  "Yes, my lord," the woman answered, and then was gone. Milner briefly saw the woman's green skin and the soft slither of her tail before she moved out of his view.

  "I forgot you were coming, Milner."

  The General clasped his hands behind his back and paused, weighing his words. "This is the appointment I was given, sir. I can show you the confirmation if you like."

  There was a muted gurgle of laughter in response, and then, "That will not be necessary. Did you like her? She's an Ischion half-breed. Quite stunning, really, if you can get past her eyes. There is nothing quite like bedding a reptilian. Do you want to try it?"

  "No, sir," Milner said. "Or is it my lord, now?" The last part came out slightly sharper than he'd meant it to, his words tinged by his frustration at being toyed with.

  A ribbon of light danced slowly through the air between them and Milner saw that the President was reclined on a large chair, staring at him. His massive shoulders were slumped forward and his arms had grown so fat that his forearms folded down over his wrists. "The Ischion are telepaths, you know. Half-breeds do not possess the gift, as far as I can tell."

  "Fascinating, sir," Milner said. He tried to redirect the conversation back around to the subject of his visit, but the President cut him off.

  "I believe a squad under your command encountered them once. Slaughtered an entire tribe, from what I can recall."

  "Ah, well, I am sure they were in performance of their duties, sir."

  "I am sure that we are all safer with two of them in prison for life."

  Milner's jaw quivered slightly but he did not speak and he was glad to be hidden in the darkness. Perhaps the Ischion half-breeds possessed more psychic abilities than the President was admitting, after all.

  "Why do you look so strained, General? I am increasing your position," the President said. "You're being promoted."

  Milner's eyebrows raised. "Thank you, sir," he sputtered. He felt a surge of renewed confidence flow through him and said, "I swear by all that is sacred I will bring an end to this war."

  "What war?" the President said.

  Milner looked at him with a half-smile, thinking the man was making a joke. "Yes, sir. Well, at any rate, the Sapienist fanatics are about to learn the meaning of fear."

  "I asked you a question, General. What war?"

  "The war against the terrorists trying to destroy Unification, sir. The war against the maniacs blowing up schools and courthouses. The ones who…"

  The President cocked an eyebrow at him and said, "Killed your son?"

  "That has nothing to do with it, sir."

  "Of course not." Another ribbon of light rippled past them, wiggling through the air and stopping at the green-skinned lizard woman walking toward them. The President smiled grimly and said, "Your new position is Administrator of Services. You be overseeing kitchen supplies and cargo transports all across the galaxy, General. You will assure that all commerce in this quadrant flows in through us and out from us. It's a highly-valued position, really. A bit dull, obviously, but someone has to keep the coffers full."

  "Administration?" Milner said. "You honestly expect me to leave the armed services? You can't be serious. The terrorists are doing everything possible to destroy us, sir. I can't leave now."

  The Ischion woman's yellow, serpentine eyes burned in the darkness. Her long black hair was twisted tightly on top of her head, accentuating her extended jaw and recessed nostrils. Her lips were feminine and she smiled softly at the President as she bent forward and offered him another box. He grunted and said, "You certainly took your time."

  She flicked the small red flame in her other hand and waved it under the box, releasing a puff of thin, white smoke. The President opened his mouth as wide as he could to let it pour into his throat until he could bear no more and began to cough. He sat back in his chair and laughed slightly as he wiped his watery eyes. He held out his hand and snapped his fingers for the box, ordering the Ischion half-breed to hand it over. He ran his fingers over the sides of it, touching
the carved figures along its surface and said, "Do you see these things? These were her gods. The ones her tribe worshipped long before humanity ever breached the threshold of space. They believed that these gods controlled their fates and brought order to the universe. And just like every other species in existence, they told themselves fairy tales to disavow the bald truth that the universe is nothing but chaos and random chance." He passed the box back to the Ischion and said, "Do you know what that story tells me, General?"

  "No."

  "It tells me that we are the gods these creatures have all been waiting for. They crave order and it is ours to give. The Sapienist resistance to lowering themselves before lesser creatures is only natural. And if it reminds the subspecies we encounter of our position, then perhaps it is right that they be reminded of it now and again."

  Milner watched the President wave the Ischion to light the box again, giving him a moment to suck the smoke deep into his lungs. "What you are saying is in violation of Unification's most basic tenets, sir. We are sworn to the service of other cultures, and what you are saying is meant to either test my commitment," he paused as the President stared at him, looking deeply into him from behind the red light of the flame, and said, "or it is treason."

  He was seized immediately by the shoulders and forced to his knees, made to bow in front of the President's chair. He felt the bladed tip of one of the guard's energy pikes bite under his chin and lift it until he was looking up at the man in front of him.

  "Terrorists," the President smirked. "Soldiers, rebels, freedom fighters, call them what you will. They are the enemies of mankind one day and the heroes of a revolution the next."

  "They are not soldiers," Milner grunted, unable to open his mouth clearly for fear of impaling himself on the spiked blade digging into his skin. "They kill women and children. They massacre innocents."

  "So do you," the President sneered. "So do I. The only difference is, when we do it, we do it in the name of Unification, just as it has been done in the name of every nation or empire since time began. It is the way of things, General. Surely you know that. How many innocents have you slaughtered in all the attacks you've ordered? How many villagers, and wives, and children of your targets have been blown up or gunned down? Let's not sit here and waste time pretending to be offended by it. I am far beyond such simplistic views."

  "Go to hell," Milner hissed. "We never targeted civilians. We never specifically set out to hurt anyone not involved in combat."

  "You have served me well and recently suffered a somewhat significant loss. I realize your mind must be sick with grief, so I will be merciful. I pardon your behavior and send you back to your new duties." He looked at his guards and said, "Now get him out of my sight."

  They wrenched Milner up from the floor, using the hook of the pike to keep his head raised and mouth shut as they dragged him out. The President's face glowed with red fire behind a curtain of smoke, and then backed away, leaving nothing but the sound of his low, rumbling laughter.

  The guards carried him back down the hall and dragged him toward the building's entrance. He had no idea how many of them had a grip of a piece of him, only that every inch of his body seemed bound and his every attempt to thrash and kick them away was met with excruciating pain. The front doors slid apart and they tossed him down the stairs like a bag of trash, sending him rolling down the edges of sharp stone until he landed on the dusty terrain with a cry.

  He lay there on his back on the concrete, squinting up at the sun's harsh glare. He raised his hand to shield his face and glimpsed two men running toward him, their boots kicking up a cloud of dust that billowed over his face. They scooped him up in their hands as he gagged and choked and the one said, "Are you hurt?"

  "What the hell was that?" the other whispered. "There was nothing on the ship's monitors except you. I was watching the entire time. It was like you floated out of the palace and threw yourself down the stairs."

  "The Presidential Guard," Milner winced, clutching his side. "They have invisibility tech. We have to go before they decide not to let us leave."

  They put Milner's arms over their shoulders, helping him hurry back to the ship. Hot spears of pain stabbed him in the sides every time he turned to look at the front entrance, trying to see if anyone came through it.

  The muscular man helping to carry him looked back at the entrance and said, "Invisibility tech? That might come in handy, you know."

  "Forget it, Bob," Frank Kelly said. "I'm not fighting the entire Presidential Guard just because you want to get your hands on new gear."

  "I'm just saying. Where we're going, it wouldn't hurt."

  2. Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos

  Gratersfield.

  A deserted wasteland of nothing but gray rock and damp clay. Nothing green lived on the planet. There were no streams or lakes to be found. Nothing but an endless expanse of barren mesa and rock canyons. Whatever lived in the caves of those canyons had grown accustomed to eating things much more rugged than human beings, as anyone who wandered away from the confines of Gratersfield Penitentiary was soon to find out.

  The prison had no gate, no walls, and no towers. Prisoners were free to leave the grounds if they chose, and some did, unable to resist the urge to attempt escape. It normally happened in the first few days, when they'd be in the yard and realize no one was stopping them from running off. They'd slip away into the canyons, or hide in the cliffs, telling themselves that it was only a matter of time before they found food or water or a way off of the planet. There was nothing to find, except the rotting corpses of other prisoners, and most of them were just skeletons that had been picked clean of meat and were now nesting insects.

  The prisoners who made it back were dehydrated and babbling. Some of them had seen visions out in the waste, fever-dreams of oases filled with fresh water and colorful fruits, but after a few weeks recovering, they would tell all the other prisoners that they'd found nothing but emptiness, and for as awful as the prison was, it was better than what waited for all of them beyond its walls.

  The guards patrolling Gratersfield walked thirty feet above the prison floors on catwalks, carrying heavy assault weapons. What made Gratersfield unique is that the guards were not there to enforce any rules on the prisoner population. The prisoners were allowed to riot, murder, and do any manner of unspeakable things to one another, and they did, all in clear view of the guards. The only things they were not allowed to do was attempt to climb up.

  Food and other necessary items were all delivered by chutes down to the various corridors that stationed the prisoners' cells. When an inmate died, it was left to the prisoners to carry the body out into the waste and leave it for the creatures to feed on.

  Attempts to climb the delivery chutes, or the walls themselves, were met with sudden, final punishment. The guards would spray the prisoners below with their automatic weapons, mowing down however many it took for the others to scatter. At times, the prisoners would look up and see a different kind of man walking along the catwalks, his drawn-forth nose and upper jaw, with the absence of any sort of chin, gave him the distinct appearance of a long-necked swamp rat. Warden Drexel dressed in a long, somber gray coat with black buttons that he wore fastened all the way up his neck. As he walked, his heavy boots landed heavily on the catwalk's metal grated floors, while he peered down at the prisoners with scalding contempt.

  Titus Fyrell looked up at the catwalk and saw the Warden, but the man was too busy, or too self-possessed to notice, and he continued on his inspection, the clunk of his boots soon growing dim. Fyrell grunted as he returned his gaze to the fearful-looking man in front of him and said, "See what I mean? They don't care what we do down here." Fyrell extended his blistered palm, scarred from years of working with unstable explosive gels and said, "Give it."

  They were in one of the darkest corners of the prison, far away from the constant fighting and commotion of the lunch room and yard, but the bald-headed man still looked quickly over both s
houlders, and then up at the catwalks, making sure they weren't being watched. Fyrell snatched him by the throat and pressed close to him, snarling into the man's ear with breath so rancid it could wither an herb garden, "They ain't the ones you gotta worry about in here, love. I could pluck out your eyes and leave you writhing in permanent darkness and they wouldn't give two squirts. Now. Give it."

  Fyrell's mouth became an extended row of blackened, chipped teeth as he watched the man back up and jam a finger down his own throat. He bent forward and started to dry-heave, coughing and gagging until he vomited up a wet plastic bag of pills. Fyrell bent down as soon as the bag hit the floor and grabbed it, saying, "That's good. Well done. Well done indeed."

  The man wiped his mouth and said, "You'll tell your people I did it, right? They'll cancel my debt and leave my family alone now?"

  Fyrell was too interested in the bag, then, holding it up and staring in wonder at the dozens of pills inside. "Excuse me," the man said again. "You'll tell them, right? That was the deal."

  Fyrell glanced back at him and said, "Sure. Next time I see them. Of course, being stuck in here, that might take a while."

  "But…but…we had a deal," the man whispered. "I risked my life carrying those things around inside of me. This isn't fair!"

  Fyrell's hand disappeared behind his back and came flying back around wielding a length of steel that had been ground to a sharp edge along one side, forming a makeshift machete. He lunged at the man just enough to send him scurrying down a long corridor of cells. Fyrell chuckled to himself as he lifted the bag and inspected the pills, mentally calculating how much he'd be able to charge for each one. It was a shame the food was such terrible slop in there. People would give that away willingly. In a prison such as Gratersfield, it was what people did not want to part with that held value. Having something the others didn't gave you a certain form of power, and right now, Titus Fyrell was holding a bag full of it.